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| [Sweet Potato Pie] |
It reminded her of home, of being surrounded and cherished. When her mother softened and her cold hands found purpose kneading the pie’s dough, patting it, rolling over it—like she did everything in life—swiftly, without thought, with practiced perfection.
Impatiently, Alex paced alongside the baker’s case. Shrouded by a white box, the pie was set before her. The sweet smell hit her then, memories following suit. Ostentatious displays of food and affection, the pie smooth and sugary on her tongue. How it swished between her cheeks as a child, was resentfully swallowed as a teenager, and savored as an adult. And this year, in anonymity, it would be the measuring stick of her former life.
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